It's just a story
by Krummbein1
Summary: 200 years have passed since the last battle at Hogwarts. But nothing seems to be the way it should - something has gone terribly wrong...


**Disclaimer:**

I do not own Harry Potter or any other character or place of the series. They belong to J.K. Rowling who created this magical world. This story is just for entertainment!

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The air was sweltering and thick clouds of smoke made it nearly impossible for any newcomer to find whoever he was looking for. It was hard to find a free seat anyway, because on this evening, like on any other, the pub was cramped and the chance of not stomping on each others feet was nearly as high as winning the lottery.

Most guests were regulars. They came each Friday, some of them even came everyday, to distract themselves from their work, to meet some friends, or to just hang out in a more or less quiet corner all to themselves.

However, there were still new guests coming in from time to time. Friends or relatives had told them of this pub and of its unusual, even legendary stories. Just to find it was considered hard work if not a challenging endeavor. It was far off the road and protected by a number of strong charms, only he who knew where to look for it was able to find it.

The young man who owned the pub inherited it from his father who himself came to it by his father and so it went on for several generations up to an old women who gave it to her nephew for his seventeenth birthday before she disappeared.

That happened over 200 years ago and hardly anyone could even remember anything about the whole story. And still that women was presumed to be crazy since the little that was known of that time was just ridiculous. But one couldn't ignore that at least some of it had to be right, since no one could come up with another good reason that would explain the concealment of the pub. Again and again the innkeeper would talk about how this pub originally had been an uninviting not very popular place, for the common witches and wizards anyway. Dark and dreary figures had used to come here and the old grumpy bartender had not seemed to be eager to change that.

The story, or legend as one could call it by now, also told about another pub, which had not been very far from this one. Altogether with a handful of different magical shops and a few houses inhabited by witches and wizards, they had formed a little village called 'Hogsmeade'.

"Hogsmeade?", one interrupted. "What's that supposed to be?"

Sooner or later that question always came up when the bartender told of the 'good ol' times' and then he would start to tell them about the village that once had stood right here, one of the few in England that had been solely inhabited by witches and wizards. He would tell them about a shop, that sold unimaginable sweets, about 'Zonko's Joke Shop' and the 'Shrieking Shack'.

But everyone knew that he himself didn't believe in any of this nonsense and least of all in the rumor that there once had been a school for witchcraft and wizardry just a stone's throw away from the pub for there was no proof, no remainder, no ruins that would even suggest that there had ever been anything more than the 'Hog's Head'.

But then again he loved talking about it, particularly when new guests arrived in his pub. But there were few who would still listen to him when he finally told them about the legendary painting behind which there had been a secret pathway to the school.

There was only one person that drew even more attention to himself than the barkeeper's old stories of Rosmerta.

No one knew his name and nobody had ever seen his face. He was the first to come into the pub each day, and always the last one to leave. None but the innkeeper himself knew, if he even left at night. Some even guessed that he was attached to that seat of his since nobody ever saw him leave it.  
Even now, over 200 years after Rosmerta's disappearance, he sat in his corner, the hood of his cloak pulled low in his face, and smoked his pipe. Nobody knew how old he was, no one could explain, why he spent each and every day in this pub without ever talking to anyone.  
A weird aura surrounded him and no one dared to even go near him. It was like an unspoken law. Certainly nobody believed that he had been here for 200 years, although it would fit with the legends surrounding this place.

On this particular, but up until now not very uncommon evening, another group of newcomers arrived at the 'Hog's Head'. They had been told of this place by a friend and, curious as they were, they wanted to get a closer look at it.  
They passed a few bland hours in the company of some long-established guests and even when the pub slowly cleared, they were still there philosophizing about the vantages of belonging to the small group of wizards.  
It was past two in the morning when they realized that their table was the last one taken in the whole room, but they didn't feel like leaving, since they didn't know when they would be able to get here again.

One of them, a young wizard in his twenties, eventually noticed the man who sat alone in his corner, from time to time nipping at the Firewhiskey the barkeeper had brought to him moments before.  
"Who is that?", he asked curiously. His friend with whom he had arrived, just gave a shrug. He was here for the first time, too. But the three man they were sitting with, exchanged knowing glances before one of them leaned over the table:

"No one really knows who he is. He has always been here and if I didn't know better, I'd say he'd still be here in a hundred years." The man, Shawn was his name, spoke with a low hushed voice, as if he secretly feared the quiet man. "He is a stranger. No one knows, who he is, no one knows where he came from, no one knows his story. And nobody dares to ask him..." Shawn leaned back in his seat and ordered another drink. It was as if nothing had happened. His friend Dean began to tell another story of his dumb cousin who had tried for years now to get behind Dean's treasured secret.

"Why don't you just ask him?" The young man didn't like the way the others tried to draw off his attention.

Shawn and Dean looked at each other for a moment before they started laughing. "Ask him? Are you crazy?" Dean wiped away a few tears.

"Why not? I don't think he looks very dangerous. I mean... he's just a harmless old man... what could possibly happen?", the young man asked with a serious expression on his face.

Dean had no answer to that question. He muttered a few words to himself, when he suddenly looked up to the new guy, who had just raised from his seat.

"What are you doing?", he asked although he didn't really want to know... besides, it was obvious, what the young man wanted to do. "Don't you dare going over there, you hear me?", he said angrily and reached for the other man's arm.

"Get your hand off of me!" The young man broke his arm free and made another try to get to the stranger in the corner.

"Please... leave him alone!", whispered Dean looking anxiously towards the old man, who in this instant was raising his head, staring in their direction.

But the new one couldn't care less. He squeezed himself past Shawn and finally found his way towards the old man who seemed to have looked at him the hole time.

As the young man arrived at the old mans table he came to an abrupt halt, not sure what to do next. His courage seemed to have slipped away with his last steps and for a moment he thought about going back to his friends when he suddenly heard a gentle voice. He needed a moment to realize, that this voice came from the hooded man and although he knew that he was right, he couldn't quite believe it. The voice didn't sound very old or harsh, on the contrary, it seemed to be kind and understanding.

"What do you want?"  
If anyone else would have asked this question, it would've been suggested as being harsh, but now, here, in this instant, it seemed to be getting a whole new meaning. It appeared to be a request, an invitation to ask this man everything he wanted to, as if he knew everything there was to know in this world.  
The young man was unable to explain this ineffable feeling of security, it was as if the old man's words had captured his whole body.  
"I... I'd like to..." He wasn't able to say the words that a moment before had been on the tip of his tongue. In the presence of the old man they seemed to have lost all their meaning.  
"You'd like me to tell you my story, don't you?" The old man asked with a calm in his voice that made every other noise sound like a unbearable screech.

The young man just nodded for he didn't dare distort the man's words with his own.

"Well... sit down." The man pointed at a second seat at his table which apparently hadn't seen a duster in a long time. But the other one didn't care. He was still overwhelmed by the thought that this old man was about to tell him everything although he wasn't sure whether what he was about to hear would be worth the trouble. On the other hand... no one had ever heard the story so in the end it didn't really matter if it would turn out to just being nonsense...

"Would you care for a drink?", the old man asked giving the barkeeper a hint to serve another glass of whiskey.

The innkeeper still stunned by the events unraveling in the rear corner of his pub needed some time to realize what the man wanted. Finally he set the ordered glass on the table and a whole bottle of his best brand.  
"What is your name?", the old one wanted to know.  
The other still stared at his glass in disbelief and even as he finally answered he didn't dare looking up.

"George", he finally got out.

"That is a big name. I just hope you're not a sly old dog like the other George I once knew. He was a real rascal, although I'd have to admit that he wouldn't have done so much damage on his own. He and his brother were inseparable."  
The little George was able to see of the stranger's mouth started smiling.

"Alright... what would you like to hear?", the old man asked as he realized that George was still staring at the table.

"I- I don't really know... your story?" The young man was still a little bit embarrassed by what the other one had just said and wasn't sure, what to say. He gave an insecure glance to his friends who gave him even more stunned looks.

"Can I ask why you'd like to know this?"

George gave a shrug. He really couldn't say why he wanted to know.

"Maybe because everyone in here makes such a secret out of it.", he said at last. "I'm just curious."

The old man gave a small chuckle as if he knew exactly what George was talking about.

"I'll tell you everything, but I expect you to listen... no matter how long it will take, understood?"

George gave a nod and finally looked up. His whole body seemed to tremble with anticipation. He waited for the other to begin but instead the old man took a long wooden stick out of his cloak and placed it on the table right in front of him.

"Do you know what this is?", he asked quietly and although George still couldn't see the old man's eyes he knew that he was looking at him.

George shook his head for he had not the slightest idea what this stick could be.

"It's a wand, one of the few that still exist." the man said. "It's one of Ollivander's, one of the best wandmakers of all time. I still remember the first time I stepped into his store..." For a moment the old man paused. "But the story I'd like to tell you isn't about me. I was just a little piece of a long forgotten time.

"There were as many muggles then as there were witches and wizards. We had our own ministry, our own schools and shops, we even had our own sport. It was played on brooms high up in the sky... that had always been fun!" Although he couldn't see the old mans face George instinctively knew that the other one was smiling again.

"Have you ever heard of Lord Voldemort?" he suddenly asked.

"No" George stared at his glass again.

"So you know nothing about the prophecy of Sibyll Trelawney."

George shook his head. "No"

"That is sad, very sad..." The old man's voice was sorrowful and for a moment George feared he would stop talking.

"Well then... I'd better start at the beginning", the old man said and refilled his glass.  
"A long, long time ago a young boy called Tom Riddle went to school not far from here. The school, Hogwarts, was one of the most famous schools for witchcraft and wizardry in the whole world. Tom Riddle was an orphan. His mother, a witch, died right after his birth. She could only give him his name: Tom Marvolo Riddle.

"This good looking intelligent boy should grow to be the most vicious creature our world had ever seen. I say 'creature' because what ever Tom Riddle became... it wasn't human anymore. He was cruel, without conscience. He killed thousands and thousands of people, tortured his adversaries and brought terror into our world.

"One night he learned that there was a prophecy, a prophecy that predicted the birth of the boy who would be able to defeat him.

"And like all people who seemingly possess unlimited power, Voldemort didn't want to loose this power and so he started to look for the boy, to kill him before the prophecy could be fulfilled.  
But he didn't know the whole content of the prophecy and his attack was bound to fail. The curse that normally would have killed in an instant was thrown back at him. Voldemort was defeated and the boy who should have died that night was left with nothing more than a lightening shaped scar.

"Overnight Harry Potter became famous.

"But he was barely a year old, a baby that had lost his parents to Voldemort's course and was now doomed to a life with his muggle aunt and her family."

George stared at him in disbelief. This whole thing seemed so strange, so unlikely that he was about to get up and leave. But then again he had never been more eager to hear more.

"But... I mean... a curse that can kill? How's that supposed to happen?", he asked.

"You forget that we were many then... and almost everyone had a wand. With this magic item we were able to do horrible things... even worse than killing. The little magic that is left in todays witches and wizards is just a small nearly rotten relict of what once had lived in all of us."

The old man took a deep breath before he continued.

"Harry's childhood was cruel. He was beaten by his cousin, tormented by his aunt and uncle and on top of all that strange things happened all around him. He didn't know that he was a wizard and he had no clue that he was famous in our world. He didn't know who he was."

There was a moment of silence and George could hear that his friends had finally got back to their drinks, talking about their so-called secrets.

"But all that should change on the day of his 11th birthday. Yet days before an envelope with the words 'Mr. H. Potter, the Cupboard under the Stairs, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey' had found its way into the Dursley's home.

But Harry never got to read his letter for his uncle had destroyed it. Even more letters followed the first one and in the end his uncle plus family and Harry made a run for it. What Vernon Dursley didn't know was that he would never be able to get away from the letters. Then, on Harry's birthday, July 31th at midnight, a really big man stomped through the wooden door of the small hut they were hiding in. And from that day on Harry learned all about the life in the other world..."

The old man began to tell him about Diagon Alley, about the Hogwartsexpress, that would take the students to Hogsmeade on September 1st every year, about the great feast that would take place in the beginning of every school year. He talked about the four houses Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Slytherin and how the The Sorting Hat would divide the new students into the four houses.

George was fascinated by the world that seemed to built up in his own mind while he listened to the old man's words. He didn't realize how time went by. He didn't notice that the innkeeper showed his friends the way out shutting the door behind them or that he brought them another bottle of Firewhiskey before the torches went out and the last source of light was the small candle that burnt down between them.

The report of the Triwizard Tournament and Voldemort's return on the dark cemetery nearly made George's heart stop and he noticed that his hands were shaking.

"After Sirius' death he learned of the prophecy, the prophecy that had sealed his fate before he had even been born:

_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies..._  
"The following year Harry and Dumbledore took a long journey through Tom Riddel's past in search for the pieces of his soul. You have to know, George, that Voldemort in the deep desire to become immortal had split his soul into seven pieces and only if all of them were to be destroyed they would be able to defeat Voldemort for good.

"But Dumbledore died, killed at the hand of the man he had trusted most: Severus Snape.

Harry, Ron and Hermione didn't go back to Hogwarts for their seventh and final year, instead they went on a search for the last Horcruxes and as impossible as it might seem, they were able to find and destroy them all. But in the end Harry had to realize that on the night his parents had died, a piece of Voldemort's soul had become a part of him. He himself was a Horcrux, he himself had to die if Voldemort was to be defeated."

George slapped his hand over his mouth to prevent himself from crying out loud. It almost felt as if he himself had been there...

"But Harry Potter didn't die. The piece of Voldemort's soul that had been a part of him for almost his entire life, was destroyed and with it the last obstacle that had stood between Harry and Voldemort's death."

"What happened next?" George asked nervously.

"Everything went wrong..." The old man sadly shook his head as if he still couldn't believe what had happened.

"Wha- what do you mean?" George couldn't imagine why this story shouldn't have a happy ending since Voldemort wasn't here anymore if he had ever existed.

"Look around George... look around and tell me: does this look like we had a glory victory?"

George looked up and glanced through the deserted pub.

"Don't you think we would still talk about that day if we had been victorious?"

"But... but how-"

"We didn't know the whole truth! We couldn't even imagine what would happen if the prophecy would finally be fulfilled. We just couldn't have known..."

Silence struck again. It might have been hours or even days since the old man had started talking. The world could've come to an end George wouldn't have noticed it.

"In that particular moment as Voldemort's curse was thrown back at him and he was finally consumed by his fate the world sank into darkness. It felt as if a wave of despair closed in over us.

And then he stood in the middle of nowhere, alone on an abandoned hill. He didn't know where he was or how he got there. The last thing he remembered was the green light that meant Voldemort's demise.  
"He called out for his friends, his alleys, but nobody heard him, nobody answered. He didn't loose another thought to it for he had once before traveled via portkey without knowing it although he couldn't imagine how that could've happened in that situation.

"He made a determined step forward and apparated to Hogsmeade, but he arrived next to the old, rotten Pub instead. He recognized the Hog's Head in which we reside in this moment, but he couldn't quite understand why he wasn't able to see the rest of the village.  
"A strange anticipation overcame him but he wasn't ready to even consider it. He made another step forward and disappeared to the one place that had always felt like home: the Burrow.

He landed in an empty field, but the surroundings looked very familiar. He knew that he was in the right place... only the Burrow didn't seem to exist anymore...  
And then he realized that the hill he had found himself on after the fight wasn't just an abandoned hill – it was Hogwarts, or at least the place where it had been for hundreds of years.

"He was alone. Harry Potter, the boy who lived, was on his own."

George hadn't realized that tears were running down his face. He wiped them away, hoping that the old man hadn't noticed it.

"It turned out that he wasn't alone after all. There were still a few witches and wizards in this world. But the magic places had disappeared and everything we had had died with them... our knowledge, our history, our legacy... our world.

"The little magic that still exists today is the only memory we have, the only proof that we're still here."

The old man took his glass and swallowed the rest at once. As he put it down again it seemed as if a heavy burden had been taken off his shoulders.

"It's time." he finally said and was about to get up.

"What? Where are you going? I still have so many questions! What happened to Ron and Hermione? And why-"

"It doesn't matter what happened to them, and to be honest, I never found out. I only know that someone missed them very much... and still does!"

George didn't know how he should respond to that. But he had a last question:

"Who are you?"

The old man didn't answer. It seemed as if he had to think about it, as if it was a very hard question to answer.

"How do you know so much about what has happened?"

"Because I was there!"

George stared at him in disbelief. "Impossible!"

The other one shook his had. "No... unfortunately not." He sighed deeply as if he didn't know what to do next.

"What do you think happened to the boy who had to realize, that everything he fought for, that each and everyone he ever loved were lost forever? What do you think had happened, why do you think he had suddenly found himself on an empty hill on which moments before the dignified walls of Hogwarts had been?  
'Neither can live while the other survives.' And the boy had to realize that something else was written in these lines, Harry Potter had to realize that the moment in which he had finally defeated Lord Voldmort had made him immortal, doomed to an eternal live of loneliness."

"This means... is that... are you..." George stared at the old man while his mind tried to come up with an answer to the question he had never asked.

Instead of answering the untold question the old man slowly pulled down the hood. A very untidy head of black hair appeared and George was finally able to see the other man's face that had lain in the shadow of the hood for so long. He nearly cried out in surprise but no sound came over his lips as if the sudden realization had taken his voice.

The man who was sitting opposite of him wasn't old, on the contrary, he couldn't be older than twenty. But still there was so much wisdom in his sorrowful green eyes as if he had been here since the dawn of time. And then he saw it: For a moment he was able to see the lightening shaped scar on the man's forehead, the scar that Lord Voldemort had left over 200 years ago.  
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Author's note:

Please note that English is not my first language so I'd like to apologize for any mistakes that might still be in the text despite numerous corrections.


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